Ghost of Memory
by I.Weave.Dreams
Summary: Sherlock Holmes, a consulting detective for the supernatural, can handle just about anything. But when John shows up at his door after being dead for two years, not even he knows what to do. All he knows is that he's not going to waste his second chance.
1. In the Orchard

**Author's Note: Hello! This is my first fanfiction on this site. If any of you have watched the show Supernatural, you'll see I draw reference from there quite often, but I'll be doing all my own story lines and such. And who knows, maybe we'll even get to meet the Winchester boys. You don't need to have seen the show to understand the story, by the way.**

* * *

><p>The floor of the old abandoned Victorian home creaked under Sherlock's weight as he took a step back. He only needed to get to the window, and his plan would fall into place. He wiped the back of his hand roughly under his nose, a feeling of mild irritation welling up inside of him as he felt something dripping from it.<p>

He made a wet sniveling sound, and took another step back. He raised his arms out in front of his body, keeping them bent at the elbows. "I'm sorry! This has all been a misunderstanding. I…I'm just an amateur. I was just trying to get a thrill! I have no idea what I'm doing! Please, let me go," Sherlock pleaded, his voice a whine. One more step back.

The demon in front of him threw her head back, sending a cascade of brown hair tumbling past her shoulders, and laughed. The sound was high and maniacal as it vibrated off the deteriorating walls. She moved forward to press in on her prey.

"Don't think you can fool me with your pathetic attempt at acting. I know exactly who you are, Sherlock Holmes," the demon smiled wickedly, barring her teeth. "Every demon in Hell knows your face, seeing as you sent nearly half of them there yourself. And might I say, what a pretty face it is."

All at once the tears stopped flowing. Sherlock straightened up and casually flicked the trail of tears away with the brush of his thumb. He knew his act wouldn't work. Of course he knew. He'd done it to buy himself some time. He took another step back, right up against the window. Perfect.

He'd been tracking this demon for some time now. The demon had taken the body of a young woman. She was beautiful by the standards of others, with her long hair, her curvy body, and evenly proportioned face.

The first time Sherlock saw her, he deduced that the human had been a bartender, owned two dogs, one small and one large, and attended night classes at a local community college. He'd managed to gather all of this despite the fact that the girl's body had been inhabited by a demon for over half a year now.

It was always harder to deduce things about a human when they'd been inhabited by a demon for a period of two months or longer. The demon's own habits and lifestyle choices tended to take over. However, this demon must have taken a liking to the girl's lifestyle, because she hadn't changed much. Although, Sherlock noted that this demon had quit her part-time job at the local grocery store.

Which reminded him, he needed to pick up some milk later. Mrs. Hudson had blatantly refused after the last time, when he used the still-full jug to store eyeballs in for an experiment, and forgot to tell her. She'd had a few choice words for Sherlock when she tried to pour some milk for him for afternoon tea.

Sherlock registered this while another part of him listened to what the demon, formally Brittani Hagen, was saying to him. The other third of his brain was going through the list of other cases Lestrade had presented him with, as he already considered this one a done deal.

He almost hadn't taken this case when Lestrade had presented it to him. The girl's family was claiming that they thought their daughter was being threatened, because she'd begun behaving bizarrely.

They were referring to her sudden preference for women instead of men, Sherlock observed. He thought the matter trivial and idiotic, and let Lestrade know just what he thought of his already minimal level of intelligence for presenting him with such a case.

Lestrade, along with a few other select members of the Chicago Police Department, knew about what Sherlock did. Sherlock was a consulting detective for the supernatural. And when the police were out of their depth (Which was always) they contacted Sherlock. It was a strained relationship at first, as Sherlock liked to work alone.

But he later realized that the police actually managed to find interesting cases that he would never have investigated on his own. Like this one for example. They also provided him with something he could not have obtained on his own, though he'd been doing fine without it. They provided him with police access to restricted property and crime scenes, which he would have otherwise had to sneak into.

Sherlock had never gotten caught before, but admittedly, it saved him a lot of time when he could just walk into a place without having to work out a disguise. Also, it gave him back that 1/16 part of his brain that was concentrating on not getting caught. He could now use that part of his attention to focus on something else, like an experiment, or running through the numbers of pi like he sometimes liked to do.

It wasn't until he'd started taking note of telltale signs of demonic presence in the area that he reconsidered the case. There were lightning storms, and crop failure, along with a few deaths that might not have been out of place in the city, but drew more attention in the quiet suburbs of Chicago.

Since then, he'd exorcised three demons, who'd all come to the town together, which was strange in its own right. This would be the last of the pack, he knew. He'd been in this town of Plano for a few weeks now, and had slept very little, and had eaten even less. But that wasn't his most pressing concern. He'd left an experiment sitting back in his apartment, not thinking he'd be gone this long. And he really couldn't rely on Mrs. Hudson to follow his directions properly, no matter how precise he'd been over the phone.

"I'll admit, I'm impressed with how you found us. I've heard the hype, of course, but I thought it might be undeserved, as it usually is with you hunters. But no, I am pleasantly surprised. You know, I hear they have a special place reserved for you in Hell. It's in the deepest, darkest layer. It's so far down, that even if the gates to Hell opened, you'd never be able to claw your way out."

The demon's eyes flashed, turning from blue-eyed to completely black, not an inch of white in sight. She licked her lips and sashayed closer to Sherlock.

Sherlock gave a long-suffering sigh. "Why is it demons always feel the need to speak aloud every thought that crosses their limited little minds? Why must you all waste my time with your incessant chatter and taunting? Perhaps if you cut the show, you could focus more of your attention on your surroundings, and not end up back in the Hell you were hewn from. I can always count on your inane stupidity. That's how I killed your friends so easily."

That knocked the smirk off the demon's face. "I am going to enjoy killing you, Sherlock Holmes. The Greatest Hunter of Supernatural Creatures in the World, many call you. I shall be worshipped for eternity. I'm going to make this nice and slow, until those tears of yours become real, and those cries for help can be heard by Lucifer himself."

The demon snarled and lunged at Sherlock. Sherlock didn't even flinch as she snapped her teeth inches away from his face, and then was suddenly knocked flat onto her back. The demon looked around wildly, her shouts of frustration piercing the air.

"What did you do?"

Sherlock crossed his arms and leaned lazily against the window. "Long ago I deduced that demons spend so much of their time down below, that they often forget to look up."

Sherlock's gaze went to the ceiling. On it was a large circle with a star inside. Each of the five points came in contact with the circle. There were also symbols inside that originated from The Lesser Key of Solomon, which is a grimoire, or magical text, that was made in the 17th century. It creates a binding spell to keep a demon inside its perimeter. There's no way out, unless you break one of the lines.

"That's a devil's trap," Sherlock said unnecessarily, as the demon no doubt knew what it was. But there's no harm in reminding her that she's not going anywhere, anytime soon.

The demon's speech dissolved into a string of insults. She'd no doubt pieced together the real reason Sherlock put on that little crying fiasco. He'd needed to get her to follow him into the room and under the devil's trap without her seeing it. Not that Sherlock had been particularly worried about her actually observing something for once in her life. Demons were no better than humans, and were often times worse.

Sherlock closed his eyes tiredly, and pinched the bridge of his nose. He held his hand out to silence her. "I'm already aware of your limited, primal vocabulary. Let's skip over this part, shall we? I've got a vampire's head in my refrigerator which I must get back to in order to observe its rate of deterioration in relation to that of a human's. And my landlady's no doubt took my absence as an opportunity to hide my friend's skull again, so there's that to find. Well, I say friend…"

The demon stared at him blankly, her mouth slightly agape. "Good. Now that we're on the same page…" Sherlock pushed off from the wall, and reached back to pull a small, leather-bound book out of his back pocket. He took out the book mark, and began to read the Latin text aloud.

He'd manage to get about a paragraph in before the demon started screaming. "Stop! Please stop! I haven't hurt anyone! I didn't kill like the others! Please!"

Sherlock didn't even pause. He'd heard it all before.

The demon screamed as she forced her way to her knees, her back caving in and rising up as she breathed in ragged breaths. She threw her head back, her hair flying around her, and looked up at Sherlock.

"I can see your mind, Sherlock Holmes. Ah! What a vast and brilliant mind it is! Gah!" She let out another wail. "So many things you can think about at once! I don't have your full attention even now. Does anyone ever have your full attention? No, not since you were a child, and even then yo-" Another scream racked through her body.

It was another few seconds before she spoke again. "But I also see your heart, Sherlock Holmes. And what a tiny, lonely black heart it is! No one to love but your work, and even then it's more of an obsession than a passion. But you pride yourself on that don't you, Sherlock? The man without a heart, huh? Not for long."

Sherlock had been listening to her the entire time he had been reading. But only with the smallest amount of attention required. Now, however, he looked up before he could stop himself. He continued reciting the spell, never faltering. He had it all memorized, of course, but he liked to keep his book with him just in case. Reading out of it had become a habit.

The demon cackled loudly from the floor. "Although there was one once who had your heart. Doctor John Watson. Well, until you killed him at least."

Sherlock fumbled over a word before quickly correcting himself. He mentally scolded himself for doing so, but pressed on.

"That caught your attention, did it? Well, it should. How long's it been since he died? Two years? He died for you, Sherlock. His death is on your hands. He gave and gave and gave until he could give no more. And what did you give him in return? A sense of adventure? A temporary reprieve from the dull life that humans lead? But what else? You gave him an emotionally crimpled friend. A friend who wasted so much of his time trying to appear the proper sociopath just so he wouldn't have to admit his true feelings.

"You have no idea what's coming for you, Sherlock Holmes. You can fight the supernatural beings in this world with your mind and your fists all you want. But when it comes to your heart, you're just as hopeless as the rest of the humans."

Sherlock glared at the demon, holding her gaze, and trying to read her face for the truth. Demon's had certain powers that allowed them to see into peoples' minds, as well as into the future, especially if it involved other supernatural beings. But more often than not, they used this information to lie to you. They used it to tell you what you feared most so that they could get themselves out of sticky situations.

This was not the first time a demon had brought up John to Sherlock. It happened almost every single time. But Sherlock, having shut off all emotions long ago, never paid them any mind. However, this demon hit a note in Sherlock that rang truer than anything else. No other demon had guessed it about him before.

If the demon thought this tactic would cause Sherlock to stop, and to break down crying, she was sorely mistaken. It only served to make him speak faster, the sooner to shut her up. The demon went back to screaming as Sherlock reached the final paragraph. When he finished, he closed the book, and finally focused nearly all of his attention on the demon.

Her scream pierced the air as her arms were forced out to her sides, and her head was thrown back. A giant black cloud of smoke shot out of her mouth and through the ceiling.

The girl's body fell limp against the floor. Sherlock quickly stooped down to her side. She blinked a few times, and opened her eyes groggily. "What's going on?"

Almost as soon as she'd spoken, blood began to spill from her mouth. She looked up desperately at Sherlock, who watched her with a distant look in his eyes. He knew the girl wouldn't survive. He'd shot her body twice, once in the chest and once in the stomach, when the demon was inhabited in it.

Sherlock always tried his best to harm the possessed bodies as little as possible. A gun shot wouldn't kill a demon. The body was only a vessel for them. But it did stun them long enough to get their arms off from around your neck. However, once the demon was exorcised, the body could no longer be sustained if mortally wounded.

It was a hard price to pay, but it wasn't Sherlock's job to keep the human alive. His job was to get rid of the demons and other supernatural creatures that wreaked havoc throughout the world. And he'd done that successfully today.

Confusion filled the girl's eyes as her arm raised off the floor. She seemed to be trying to grab onto Sherlock. Sherlock watched her with a keen eye. It wasn't her dying that interested him. People died all the time, and he couldn't save this one, so there was no point in bothering about it. No, it was the dying itself that fascinated him. The extinction of human life as it fled the body.

A couple seconds later, the girl was dead. Sherlock rose to his feet and shoved the book back into his pocket. He walked out of the front door and into the early morning air. He began walking down the highway, towards the nearest gas station where he'd called a cab earlier to pick him up. He'd be right on time. Of course.

He phoned Lestrade to inform him what happened, speaking to him nearly the entire way to the gas station. He declined Lestrade's need of medical attention, and promptly hung up. As he put his phone back in his pocket, he noticed a red smear on the back of his hand. Blood. He quickly recalled wiping his hand across his nose irritably as something trickled from it earlier.

The demon must have landed a blow when they were scuffling. Sherlock brought his hand back up, and felt a sticky, half-dried trail of blood. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, and attended to it.

The cab ride back to Chicago was a long one. Once back in the city, he stopped by the police station to grab a stack of cases Lestrade wanted him to look at, and then it was home again.

Sherlock was getting his mail out of its box, when Mrs. Hudson came into the hallway. "Oh, Sherlock, deary! You're back." She pulled Sherlock into a hug, which he allowed, remaining immobile until she was done fulfilling her need for human affection.

"Oh, Sherlock. You look terrible! When's the last time you've eaten? And slept? You never take care of yourself when you go off on your little cases. You know what I think? I think you need someone to come along with you to remind you to stop every once in awhile. Ever since John-" She caught herself, momentarily looking horrified at her slip.

"I work alone, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock replied sharply. This was not the first time Mrs. Hudson suggested he find himself some friends. And it certainly wouldn't be the last.

Mrs. Hudson shook her head and tutted at him. "I know you do, Sherlock, but you can't forever. It'll catch up with you one day. Then you'll be coming by and asking for some of my herbal soothers. I've got plenty, if you want some now?"

"I'm fine, Mrs. Hudson, thank you. Now if you'll excuse me, I have a few things that require my attention." He'd had enough reminders of John today, and some peace and quiet, and a room full of experiments and chemicals would serve to squash those memories. As they always did.

He started up the stairs, when she called out to him again. "Say hello to your cousin for me!"

Sherlock came to a halt. "I don't have a cousin," he replied. That wasn't technically true. His mother and father had several siblings who had in turn produced their own line of offspring who would no doubt turn out just as insufferably idiotic. But to call them cousins would be to own up to a family connection, which he would not claim.

Mrs. Hudson gave a chastising look. "Of course you do, Sherlock. He's been here almost a week now. He's been in your flat. I met him when I went up to look at that funny smelling jar of yours like you asked. He wouldn't come out of your room, busy with something he was, but I'll bet he's a handsome fellow. He sounds like he would be. I offered to make him some tea, but he declined. He doesn't seem to eat or drink much. Funny little fellow he is, but very nice. Do you know, you've got a head in your fridge?"

Sherlock's eyes had narrowed as he ran through what Mrs. Hudson was saying. His brain had worked through a hundred different scenarios in the next second, but none of them were logical. He hastened his step up the stairs, leaving Mrs. Hudson to continue her musings.

Sherlock pushed the door open, and his eyes darted around the room, assessing everything. Mrs. Hudson often commented on the state of the room, declaring it a "complete mess" due to the stacks of books and piles of papers laying around, along with various experiments, and such.

Sherlock didn't agree. A mess implied that things were thrown around randomly, and the location of certain objects could be classified as unknown. Sherlock knew where everything was…Mostly…And if he didn't, he always got it by the second try.

He walked in slowly and set his things onto the coffee table. He moved through the flat like a ghost, carefully checking each room for his "cousin". He had several weapons concealed on his body, as he always did, ready to be pulled out at a moment's notice.

However, after a thorough search, Sherlock couldn't find anything missing. Some things had been rifled through, but that was all. Not even the meager contents of his fridge and pantry were touched. And not a single bag of tea was missing.

Sherlock had, however, deduced that his visitor was a man, probably in his late twenties to early thirties, and was around 5 foot 7 inches tall.

It couldn't be anything supernatural that was repelled by salt, like a spirit. Sherlock's whole apartment was lined with salt. Every door and window. And he had several devil's traps hidden underneath the carpeting…So who did Mrs. Hudson see then?

Sherlock went back into the living room, heading for his favorite chair, when he came to a halt. The other armchair, the one he never used, was slightly askew.

John's old armchair. He hadn't touched it, not even to set something on it, since the accident.

He approached the chair and sank to his knees. There was a distinct indent in the cushion, although it hadn't been sat on today. He felt anger flare up inside of him at this stranger's audacity. This was John's chair!

Sherlock leaned in closer, and saw that there were several small threads raised on the right arm where the visitor had picked at them, proving Sherlock's suspicion that the man was right-handed.

Sherlock felt his anger heighten to a dangerous level. John had had a habit of picking the threads on his armchair. This person seemed to have taken up the habit. Sherlock noted this because he'd practically had the number of uprooted threads memorized in his head. There were now several more.

Sherlock breathed in deeply. It'd been a long time since he'd allowed his emotions to spike like this. After John's death two years ago, he knew the only way he could ever make it through the rest of his life with a shred of sanity, was to become even colder and more reclusive than he'd been before he met John. He shut everything off.

He found himself struggling to push John out of his mind at the moment. A day never went by that Sherlock didn't think about him. But it was always in the recesses of his mind, so far back that it was more of a subconscious thought than anything else.

But the demon's words had struck a chord with him, because what she said was true. John had been the truest friend he'd ever had, and in return, Sherlock had kept part of himself from him. It hadn't been a conscious thought, not really. And it wasn't until John's death that Sherlock realized this.

It wasn't until John's death that Sherlock realized, too late, that he was in love with him.

It took the loss of John to make him see that his feelings for the doctor went far deeper than he ever thought himself capable. John Watson, the strong, brave, and endlessly giving and caring man, had managed to ensnare the heart of the ever-elusive Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock never got to tell him. And he cursed himself over and over again that first week before he shut his feelings away, for wasting so much of his precious time with John. He'd taken his time with John for granted, and now he could never have it back again.

A knock came from the door, and Sherlock turned sharply towards it. He momentarily considered telling whoever it was to piss off. But then the knock came again and Sherlock had a feeling this person knew he was home and wouldn't cease knocking until he answered. He rose to his feet, cast a glance back at the armchair, and opened the door.

The breath left Sherlock's body in an audible huff, as he felt the weight of the world come crashing down around him. He felt as if every cell in has body had frozen into rock hard pieces of glass.

He felt a pain in his chest so severe he thought he would not be able to take another breath. It was like no pain he'd ever known. Because it was more than just pain. It was an ache.

A deep, long, suffering ache that vibrated throughout his entire body as something long suppressed awoke within him. Sherlock took a breath. The air traveled through his lungs and into his heart. And for the first time in two years, he felt it beat.

"John?" he whispered.


	2. Incorporeal

**Author's Note: **

First, I just want to thank everyone who left a review. That was so kind of you! I love getting feedback so that I know if people are interested, what they like, what they don't like, ect. I don't want to write if no one's reading, ya know? So thank you for that.

Second, I forgot to mention that the chapters for this story will all be song titles by the band Tiger Army. The story title is as well. I suggest you give them a read after the chapter, or listen to the song while you read it again. They really do go with the chapter, and add an element of emotion to it, I believe. Unfortunately, I can't seem to make a link here, but if you have time please look them up yourself!

Chapter 1: In the Orchard  
>Readlisten to from Sherlock's POV.

Chapter 2: Incorporeal  
>Readlisten to that from John's POV.

Alright, I'll shut up now, Enjoy!

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, but you can be damn sure I'm tryin'.

* * *

><p>"Hello, Sherlock."<p>

Sherlock blinked his eyes rapidly in succession, hoping to dissipate the image before him that was obviously the result of sleep deprivation. He even went so far as to dig his nails into his palms, thinking that physical pain may jolt him out of this haze.

However, John didn't disappear. He stayed right where he was. And he looked exactly as Sherlock remembered. Better, actually. He didn't have any of the cuts or bruises he'd had when Sherlock had last seen him. John even had on a cream-colored jumper that Sherlock knew was his favorite. His hair was cut in the familiar style that John had never been able to shake from his army days. The rest of him was just as clean cut.

Sherlock took another breath, willing the image to go away while at the same time wanting nothing more than to indulge in this fantasy. But it didn't matter, because the man standing before him would not leave.

"What are you?" Sherlock asked, his voice low and slightly breathless.

Sherlock's question reverberated across the walls. 'What' not 'Who' he asked. Neither of them missed the implications of that question.

"Are you going to let me in, Sherlock?" John's lips turned up in that familiar smile of his. His tone was warm and casual, like he'd just popped out to get the milk and was now returning home. His tone in no way indicated that he'd been dead for two years, and was now once again standing at the door of 221B Baker Street.

Sherlock's quick eyes skimmed over John, assessing him and deducing all that he could in a matter of seconds. Which turned out to be absolutely nothing. Never in his life had he not been able to read John. Well, he supposed this was John's afterlife now, so that didn't quite apply anymore.

Sherlock took a step back and turned to the side. "Come in."

John's smile turned amused. "Same as always then. No need to show off, Sherlock, we all know you're clever. Will you let me in now, please?"

Sherlock would have smirked at John's retort, if John wasn't supposed to be dead. Sherlock narrowed his eyes, trying to assess John once more, before he took several steps forward so that he was nearly flush up against John. John stared up at him, and then cocked an eyebrow when Sherlock continued to stand there.

Without dropping his gaze, Sherlock swept his foot across the door entrance, displacing the line of salt there. He took several steps back.

John hesitated a moment, and then walked into the flat, careful to avoid the salt. Sherlock watched, remaining still as John went and sat in his armchair. No. Just _THE_ armchair. It wasn't John's anymore. John wasn't supposed to be here.

But he was here. Very much so. And as Sherlock's muscles unlocked and he took a seat in his own armchair, he knew the matching piece of furniture across from his could never be called anything else but John's. Especially now that its owner had seemingly returned.

Sherlock steepled his fingers under his chin, and peered at John. John stared back calmly, blinking expectantly.

"So, if you're a spirit now, John, explain to me how you got in and out of the flat these past few days. I must applaud you, by the way, for fooling Mrs. Hudson. You never were very good at lying to her. Although I suppose having a door between the two of you helped. I see you've been through my sock drawer. Again. And while I'm flattered that you're still concerned about my wellbeing after being away for two years, although in that time you never seemed concerned enough to inform me of your continued existence, I would have thought you'd come up with some better ideas on where I'd keep my illegal substances, if I possessed any." Sherlock had not raised his voice. In fact, it was quite low. And harsh. Accusatory.

John's tongue curled out over his bottom lip. He let out a heavy breath through his nose, and clasped his hands together on his knees. "You're angry."

"Your skills of deduction are still on par, I see."

"Damn it, Sherlock!" John yelled suddenly, and slammed his hand down on the TV tray next to him. "I didn't know I'd been away that long!"

A feeling of satisfaction slid through Sherlock, and he leaned back in his seat, smirking behind his steepled hands. He'd wanted to break that stupid air of composure and contentment John was carrying with him. It was a front. His John wouldn't act like that in a situation like this. He was only doing it because he thought it would calm Sherlock. As always, John didn't come to the right conclusion when it came to Sherlock. Although his attempts were amusing, and more often than not, endearing.

The smirk slipped off his face suddenly as he realized he'd mentally referred to John as "His". Something turned in Sherlock's stomach that reminded him of the strange sensations he used to get whenever he thought about telling John about his discovery.

He'd thought of a thousand ways to tell John how he truly felt about him. Countless times he'd lain in bed at night, running through his head all the different outcomes of the conversation. _'If only John were still alive'_ he'd think to himself. If only John were still alive, he would tell him.

However, all those musing had taken place after John's death, and he'd never had to face them in full. Yet here John was now, back again, through some miracle, and the idea of admitting these feelings out loud horrified him into silence.

No. There was no such thing as miracles. Sherlock knew that. He knew there was a logical explanation for John's return, one he intended to find out.

"How did you get into the flat?" Sherlock repeated himself, shoving away all other thoughts and feelings for the time being.

John's breathing was heavy, and his jaw was clenched as he stared at Sherlock. He wanted Sherlock to address his outburst, to come back at him with some emotion. But as John used to say, he was barking up the wrong tree. Sherlock always avoided displays of emotion, opting out for a more logical confrontation.

John eventually closed his eyes, and shook his head. He let out a small huff that rang strangely close to disappointment. Like Sherlock had let him down, but John didn't seem surprised. Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed. Curious.

"I've been waiting for some time now to get into the flat. You would never mess up, I knew that. You were gone when I arrived anyway. I'd been watching Mrs. Hudson, knowing you'd have sent her up to look after one of your experiments despite the fact you always complain when you return that she's done an insufficient job. I watched and waited for her to mess up.

"Finally, a few days ago, she did. She accidentally broke the line of salt by the front door with her skirt. It was new, and longer than usual because she hadn't hemmed it yet. It dragged across the salt. She didn't notice though, and so when she left, I slipped in. I've been in and out since then, waiting for you to return. And yesterday, I left to go do some research, and when I returned, I found she'd replaced the line of salt. I later overheard her on the phone, and realized she'd heard you were on your way home. She must have found out she'd displaced the salt, and fixed it."

Sherlock nodded. He'd already deduced that as soon as John'd said, _"Mrs. Hudson". _He'd seen the line of salt had been tampered with when he first walked into the flat, but he hadn't paid much attention to it at the time; he'd wanted to find his "cousin" first. But he'd let John say it all anyway, finding that he was slightly enchanted by John's voice. It was strange to hear John speak after two years of absence.

"You said you didn't know how long you'd been away. What did you mean by that?" Sherlock asked calmly, as if he was talking to another one of his clients.

John's expression had gone hard. He didn't miss the tone of Sherlock's voice either. "I meant that I've only been back for a few months, but when I checked the date, it said I'd been gone for two years. I would have…" John paused here, his face softening. "I would have come back sooner if I could have. You know I would have, Sherlock."

Sherlock just stared. The look on John's face was threatening to undo him. "Why are you back here, John? I saw you die. It was violent, but quick. Spirits only come back if they want revenge. Is that what you want then? Revenge on who killed you? But how are you moving around? Spirits can only haunt the places where they were murdered, or places that were familiar to them, but you said you've gone out to do research. So how…?" Sherlock was half-talking to John and half-talking to himself as his brain raced to fit the pieces together.

It's true that spirits are the ghosts of what they used to be. But still, they're solid. They can pick up things, drive cars, make dinner, kill people. You can grab them, hold them…kiss them. They carry on the same habits that they had as humans, and their minds are the same. They have full control over everything. They're just dead. And the only way for them to move on, is for them to get revenge on whoever killed them.

They'd been doing a case when it happened. It was the hardest case of Sherlock's life, and of course, the most thrilling. He'd finally tracked down the demon that they'd been chasing for months. This demon had kept popping up in Sherlock's other cases. He'd been on the lips of every supernatural creature Sherlock vanquished. This demon had been playing a game with Sherlock, because even the damned get bored from time to time.

Moriarty was the demon's name. A consulting criminal, he dubbed himself, for the demon appeared to have control over both the human and the supernatural criminal world.

Things had come to a head near a waterfall in Switzerland. Sherlock had Moriarty in a devil's trap, and while he read out of The Lesser Keys of Solomon to exorcise the demon, John stood off to the side, watching Moriarty. However, they had severely underestimated Moriarty's power. The devil's trap couldn't hold him, he was too powerful, and he was able to make a crack in the rock that broke it.

The next thing they knew, Moriarty was out of the trap, and without hesitation, he wrapped himself around John and broke his neck. John's body was in the waterfall before Sherlock could open his mouth. Moriarty didn't say another word to Sherlock. He didn't have to. He'd said what he'd needed to say. And then he disappeared in the blink of an eye, leaving Sherlock with nothing, not even a body to cry over.

"I don't know," John whispered in answer.

"YOU'RE NOT SUPPOSED TO BE HERE!" Sherlock shouted, raising his voice for the first time all morning. His emotions had finally gotten the best of him. For the last two years he'd successfully repressed the memories of John's death. And now they all came flooding back in without a moment's notice.

Something that looked awfully close to hurt, flashed across John's face. Sherlock blinked rapidly in an attempt to compose himself, and before he could investigate further, the look was gone from John's face.

"Don't you think I know that?" John's voice had gone quiet, and he was looking down now, twiddling his fingers together. "How many vengeful spirits did we send into the afterlife together? How many countless souls did we put to rest? Of course I shouldn't be here." John looked up then. "But I don't want revenge, Sherlock, I just want to move on. I've been stuck in this world for six months! For most of them I didn't even know where I was. Do you know how long it took me to find you? I just want some peace, and I need you to help me find it."

Sherlock felt as if the breath had left his body again. "What?" Sherlock didn't often ask for something to be repeated. Actually, it irritated him to no end when people asked him to repeat things that they'd clearly heard but were too lazily to process through their brains so they asked again. But this time, just this once, he had to hear John say it again.

John's tongue darted out, and he scooted forward on his seat. He looked Sherlock straight in the eyes. "I need your help, Sherlock. Please, will you help put me to rest?"

Sherlock's mouth popped open, and then closed, and then open again. He looked like a gaping fish out of water. He knew that he should say something, but he found that he couldn't. He was feeling too many things right now. Too many things that he couldn't understand or describe. He was not used to having these feelings, and so didn't know what they were, or what to do with them.

All he knew was that he didn't want John to go. He'd just gotten his John back. When he'd shouted at John that he shouldn't be here, it wasn't because he wanted John to leave, it was because he couldn't understand his luck. No, he could not help John move on, because he couldn't lose him for a second time. If John left, who would help Sherlock move on? He'd barely managed to patch up the hole John had left in his the chest the first time, and even that was held on with shady patchwork at best. He did not think he could manage a second time. He would never admit that to anyone, not even John. Hell, he couldn't even admit it to himself. But it was true nonetheless.

"Okay," Sherlock agreed. "Start from the beginning."

And so John told him everything, and Sherlock listened. And while he listened, his brain worked to put the facts together and form theories. He did all of this, because that's what you do for someone you love. Even if it meant losing John again, Sherlock would do it, because he loved him.

But, to Sherlock's delight, the road ahead did not look dark just yet. John didn't give him much to go on. John had no idea where he'd woken up, and could only tell him how he got here, which was on several trains and buses. He had no clue why he'd only woken up six months ago instead of right after he died. And Sherlock had no clue where Moriarty was.

"Have you seen him, or heard from him since then?" John asked.

Sherlock shook his head. "No. I tracked him for awhile, but eventually the trail went cold. I never got close to him, not like we did when…" he trailed off, finding it difficult to say the words. John nodded. He knew what Sherlock meant.

Sherlock did not go in depth as to how long, and how hard he tracked Moriarty. It had become his obsession, even more than the first time. He'd go weeks upon weeks with little to no sleep or food. He'd even been hospitalized once. But Moriarty was not to be found. The crime rate had dropped considerably as well, and eventually the supernatural creatures of the world stopped whispering Moriarty's name before they were vanquished. Some didn't even know who he was.

The only assumption Sherlock could make was that Moriarty had returned to Hell. But that didn't make sense. Hell was said to be unimaginable. Why else would the demons try to escape it? It's not like Earth was a utopia by any stretch.

And then there was the idea that someone else had killed Moriarty. But Sherlock could not believe that to be true. How could someone else do what Sherlock Holmes couldn't? Neither logic nor his ego would allow Sherlock to believe it. So where was he then? And why had he gone into hiding? He wasn't afraid of Sherlock, he'd made that obvious…

"We'll have to think of something to tell everyone. I can't very well show up after being dead for two years and expect them to understand."

"Really?" Sherlock cocked an eyebrow. "You didn't seem to have a problem using that tactic on me."

John laughed at that, and after a moment, Sherlock found himself joining in. It felt good to laugh. He didn't know the last time he had.

"I've already worked that out," Sherlock said when he'd composed himself.

"Right, course you have." John smiled knowingly. "Let's hear it then."

"Your neck didn't break, Moriarty only made it look that way. He did knock you out though, and threw you into the falls. You were in a coma for one and a half years. When you woke up, you found yourself in a village hospital in Switzerland. You were released as soon as you were healthy, and immediately returned to Chicago."

John's mouth hung open slightly. "That's good, Sherlock, really good, but do you really think they're going to believe it?"

Sherlock shrugged. "It doesn't matter, they'll have to. What else can they say? That you're a ghost?" Sherlock smirked.

John laughed. "Yeah, I suppose you're right. Of course."

They'd both silently agreed that it'd be better to keep the police department in the dark about John being a spirit. Even though some of them know what Sherlock really does, he didn't know how they'd react to John being a spirit, and neither of them cared to find out.

"We should go see Mrs. Hudson now and tell her. I don't think her heart could take it if she walked in on her own and saw you."

"No," John said firmly.

Sherlock's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Why not?"

"Because, I know you. It's been days since you slept, and who knows how long it's been since you've eaten. I know how you are after a case. We're not going anywhere until you've had some of both."

Sherlock looked affronted. "Don't be absurd, John. I'm absolutely fine. You're just worried about how everyone will react to finding you still alive."

However, Sherlock's protests were no use, John wouldn't budge. He fixed up what he could for Sherlock, using everything he could in the fridge, which was next to nothing. And then he made Sherlock sleep. The nap had only lasted a few hours. John knew Sherlock had set himself an alarm. Usually Sherlock passed out for days at a time after the longer cases.

Mrs. Hudson was in hysterics when she saw John. There had been crying. Lots and lots of crying. And then came the hugging. First she hugged John. And then Sherlock. And then she pulled them both in for a group hug. Sherlock had voiced his protest, and even attempted to pull away a few times. His attempts were half-hearted at best. When really, he never wanted to move. Because this gave him a chance to touch John, to hug him. Even if it wasn't how he really wanted to hug John. He wanted to wrap the smaller man in his arms, to press him to his body as close as possible, because this place, here in his arms, is the only place he could be sure John was safe.

But he got to have one arm around Mrs. Hudson, and the other around John. His grip around John's waist was so tight that it took John's complaints to get Mrs. Hudson to finally let them go. Sherlock played it off as a hand cramp. Thankfully, John latched onto the excuse, attributing it to lack of sleep.

Next they went to the station, where the reception was nearly the same. John was well liked there, unlike Sherlock. John had an easy going nature that tended to make the people around him feel comfortable. Sherlock thought the fact that John had facial features that resembled a puppy, helped. Sherlock stood back and watched from the fringe, fighting twinges of jealously that flared up every time someone hugged John.

They found Lestrade a little harder to convince than the others, but in the end, he believed them.

"It's good to have you back," Lestrade said, clapping John on the shoulder. "We've missed you down here, Doctor Watson. And you can bet the others missed having you around. You always managed to keep Sherlock relatively in check at crime scenes." Lestrade laughed, and John joined in. Even Sherlock allowed a small smile.

"Yeah, the freak's been even worse ever since you left. Maybe he'll tone it down now that you're back," Sally Donovan said as she walked up to the group.

Sherlock glared at her. The way she said John "left" made it sound as if John had gone on a two year vacation and had finally returned. "While I'm flattered that you think your misery is a result of my actions, Sally, I can't take credit for what sleeping with Anderson does to one's psyche."

Sally's face went red at that. She clamped her mouth shut, and stalked away. Sherlock smirked and looked over at John. John was giving him a chastising look. "That wasn't very nice, Sherlock." Sherlock just smiled wider. Just like old times.

They stuck around for awhile, and as John was talking with one of the officers, Sherlock pulled Lestrade aside.

"What's up, Sherlock?" Lestrade asked. "How're you handling all of this?"

Sherlock gave him a confused look. "I'm fine. Why? Don't I look fine?"

Lestrade raised an eyebrow. "Um, yeah, sure…" He gave Sherlock a strange look before continuing. "So, what's up?"

Sherlock bent his head down closer to Lestrade's ear. "I need a favor."

Lestrade's head jerked back, surprise written all over his face. Sherlock quickly clamped a hand on Lestrade's shoulder, squeezing tightly to silence him. "Let me say this for you so your exclamations of amazement won't alert the entire police station to our conversation. Yes, I know, it's astounding that I'm asking you for help. Now will you shut up and listen to me?"

Lestrade stared at him, his mouth hanging open. After a moment he closed his mouth and nodded his head. "Sure, yeah, what can I do for you, Sherlock?"

Sherlock's eyes darted across the room, checking to make sure no one was close enough to overhear their conversation. "I need you to help contact Acer for me," he whispered, his lips barely moving.

Lestrade's eyes went wide and his mouth popped open. But this time there was no threat of him speaking, for his voice seemed to have failed him entirely. Sherlock waited impatiently, his fingers dancing at his sides.

"Lestrade," he snapped after a whole minute of silence.

"Sherlock…Sherlock I can't," he sputtered. "Not after what happened- not after what you did to him. And it didn't work the last time we tried, so unless you've found something new, I don't think it's going to this time either."

"I think I have found something."

Lestrade's eyebrows shot up. "You have? Sherlock, what is it?"

Sherlock paused briefly, careful not to give himself away. "Just get the same material we used last time. I know it will be harder to find this time, but do it, no matter the cost, no matter how long it takes. It's going to take me some time to get what I need anyway. But I should have it all ready in a few months."

Lestrade was looking at Sherlock strangely again, although there was a hint of awe on his face now as well. "Okay," he agreed after a moment. "Okay, but first, tell me what this is about? I understood your motive last time, but why now? Is it about John? There's something you're not telling me, isn't there?"

Sherlock's body went rigid. "No, of course not," he snapped, glaring at Lestrade.

Sherlock turned to walk away, when he felt a hand grip his arm. Sherlock's eyes locked onto the hand at his elbow, and then flashed up to its owner. Lestrade blinked, as if he was just as surprised to find his hand there. He started to pull away, but then stopped, gripping tighter. "Listen to me, Sherlock. I'm not going into this thing blind, not this time. I've got a family at home to think about. I need to know what's going on before I risk my life doing this."

They held each other's gaze for awhile, both of them trying to suss out the other one. "Do you trust me, Lestrade?" Sherlock finally asked.

"Yes," Lestrade replied without a thought, though his tone was hesitant.

"Then trust me when I say that it's better for you to be in the dark. And trust me when I say I wouldn't ask for your help again if this wasn't a matter of life or death to me."

Lestrade looked surprised yet again. Sherlock felt himself growing both irritated and wearied by him. People could be so simple sometimes. The littlest things surprised and excited them. And how freely they expressed their emotions was quite embarrassing. But Sherlock refrained from making a snappy remark. He need Lestrade's help with this, and it wouldn't do to make him upset.

"Okay, Sherlock, I'll get the materials."

Sherlock let out a sigh of relief he didn't know he'd been holding. "Thank you, Lestrade," he said, letting true sincerity color his voice.

Lestrade looked as if he was in danger of becoming shocked again, so Sherlock turned away quickly, not thinking he could restrain himself to bear witness to it, and went to find John.

All that mattered now was that Lestrade believed him when he said this wasn't about John, and that he didn't pry for more information. If Lestrade found out what Sherlock was up to, he would never in a million years agree to this.

John may want to have his soul put to rest, to move on from this world, but Sherlock wasn't going to let him go quite that easily. John may think that they were going to try to find a way to help him leave, but Sherlock was going to find a way to bring him back. Permanently. No matter the cost.

* * *

><p><strong>Thanks for reading! Reviews are always loved and appreciated! Don't forget to check out the lyrics!<strong>


	3. Pain

**Author's Note: Hello! I must apologize for making you all wait so long for an update. I won't give excuses, but I will say, If you haven't noticed already, I have a couple new stories up. Most of them have supernatural elements. And I'm even writing a SuperWhoLock story, so check those out if you haven't already. **

**And you know how I told you guys that the chapter titles for this story will all be songs from the band Tiger Army, and I suggested you guys look them up because they go so well with it? Well, I've decided to just weave them into the story instead. They'll be in quotes and italics and centered. I'm going to go back and put them in the other chapters, so feel free to check them out. Think of the song from Sherlock's point of view in this one.**

**I won't detain you any longer, enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: I still don't own Sherlock, but I think Moffat and Gatiss are warming to the idea…**

* * *

><p>'<em>Regret sits heavy in your chest<em>

_Until sometimes- it gets so hard to breathe_

_Sometimes it just won't go away, _

_and you start to feel it'll never leave' _

The sound of the TV filled the air, registering as background noise to Sherlock. John had always liked to play the telly when he wasn't blogging or working, and it used to get on Sherlock's nerves.

They would get in a row every single time. Sherlock would argue that he was working on an experiment that John couldn't begin to comprehend the complexity of, and needed absolute silence. John, in turn, would argue that, '_this is the living room, and as I pay half the rent, I can watch the telly whenever I please._'

Now, however, Sherlock reveled in the noise of teen girls yelling at each other, and women accusing men of being the 'baby daddy' to their child. For awhile after John was killed, Sherlock would turn on the telly while he worked. He'd always turn it off shortly after, though. Not because the noise was distracting, but because memories of his rows with John would fill his head. A strange sensation would prick the back of his eyes, and his vision would become blurred. It made it impossible to complete his experiments.

And yet, he repeated the action daily for the next couple of months until Mrs. Hudson heard him shouting, yelling at John to turn the TV down. He didn't even remember he'd done it afterwards. He only remembered waking up in his bed with Mrs. Hudson sitting at the edge of it, ready with a cup of tea and a recount of the event. The first two months had been the hardest for Sherlock, needless to say.

What was distracting him now, however, was John constantly flicking his eyes to him every couple of minutes. The only reason Sherlock knew he was doing it, was because he kept looking at John as well. Sherlock was just more subtle about it.

Finally, Sherlock had had enough. He set down his micropipette and said, "Problem, John?"

John tossed the remote aside and crossed his arms over his chest. "Yeah, Sherlock, I do have a problem. It's been two weeks now and all you've done since I've been back is sit around the flat. Lestrade's left you a stack of cases with some really good jobs in there, and yet you're sitting here still."

Sherlock shrugged and picked the micropipette back up. "The cases may seem interesting to a mind of average intelligence, but I saw nothing remarkable about them."

"Bullshit."

Sherlock's head jerked back up, his eyebrows raised at John.

John licked his lips and nodded his head. "I'm calling your bluff, Sherlock. There are some damn good cases in there that not even you could belittle Lestrade for presenting you with. Four girls were murdered in their homes in Wisconsin. All the girls had blonde hair and blue eyes, with no signs of a break-in. There's a town in Oklahoma where seven people won the lottery in the last month, and now the first two are dead. In Pennslyva-"

"Yes, I read the cases, thank you," Sherlock said, his tone bored.

John scooted forward on his seat. "Then what are we still doing here? We should be out there right now, investigating." John stilled, looking at Sherlock quietly for a moment, and then leaned back in his seat again. "You're avoiding something, Sherlock."

Sherlock wetted his lips and turned away, staring down at the petri dish, trying to focus his attention on what he was observing. Unfortunately, John had a way of consuming all of his attention, especially lately, when his deductions of Sherlock seemed to be right on the mark.

"Don't be absurd, John. Your skills of deduction haven't improved enough since your absence to permit you to take up the life of a therapist." If only _that_ were true. "Stick to what you know, Doctor."

"That!" John jabbed his finger at Sherlock. "That right there is what you always do when I've guessed something right about you. You deflect. You flip it back on me. Sorry, but that's not going to work this time. I've had my neck broken by a demon, Sherlock, you're going to have to do a lot better this time around to get me to back off." John quirked a smile to go along with his teasing.

Sherlock, however, was not amused. He didn't smile, instead his eyes hardened and his mouth set into a straight line. "Forgive me, I didn't realize your death was something to be laughed at. Interesting, as I didn't find it funny the first time around, and I don't think I will the second."

The jovial smile receded from John's face, but didn't fade completely. It turned soft, into a look of understanding. And _that_ was Sherlock's least favorite look of all. He was not used to being understood. He was not used to being on the receiving end of that smile. He disliked it very much, especially coming from John. Because although he'd been given that look many times before in his life, the only one who ever truly _did_ understand him, was John. More often than he would care to admit.

"I know it must have been hard for you, my death…" John started, his eyes trained on Sherlock. Sherlock expected this talk, had for some time now, and although he still planned to avoid it, at least John spoke without pity in his voice. John didn't sound like some therapist, much as Sherlock had implied earlier, and for that he was thankful. Suddenly everyone had tried their hand at the position after John's death, for some reason thinking that the event had somehow changed things and they were now more adept at understanding Sherlock and the way his mind worked. Or that he wanted any help from them.

'_Please stop this pain_

_Hurt for so long_

_Pain, hurt for so long_

_I've felt this way for so long'_

"And we haven't talked about it since I've come back. At all. You've just continued things like I'd never died." A muscle jumped in Sherlock's cheek. John saw it, but instead of easing up, his face only became more determined. "Yes, Sherlock, I died. I was killed next to a waterfall in Switzerland by a demon named Jim Moriarty. It happened two years ago."

John sat forward on his seat once again, resting his elbows on his knees and leaning toward Sherlock. "Now I don't know how you handled my death, Sherlock. I don't know if you grieved and then moved on with your life. Or if tried your version of grieving and moving on, which means you let yourself think of me for the first couple months and then shoved it all away. Because if you weren't thinking about me, then that meant you'd moved on."

John shook his head. "I don't know what you did in my absence. I'd like to know, to talk to you about it, but if you won't, then we have to at least talk about the fact that I'm back. We can't just pretend things are the same, because they're not, Sherlock. I'm still dead. I'm a spirit, a ghost for God's sake!" He gave a huff of laughter, but it was humorless.

His voice quieted down again. "I know you're not good with talking about how you feel, Sherlock, but we need to. We need to move past this. We have to. We have to find a way to send me to the afterlife, and we can't do that if you won't accept what's happened. I know it's going to take some time to find Moriarty again, and we can't spend all of our time looking, but still, I want to make the most of my time back here. I don't want things to be the same as they used to be."

Sherlock steepled his fingers together under his chin as his eyes narrowed. His stare intensified as he tried to deduce what John meant by his last statement. Was John unhappy about the ways things had been before he died? Or did he just mean he wanted them to be even better? Or, and Sherlock scarcely allowed himself to consider this, was John being more specific? Did he mean he didn't want things to be the same between himself and Sherlock this time around? Did he want them to be something…more? Or was he just twisting John's words to fit his own desires?

A monotonic-ringing filled the air as Sherlock's phone went off. He let it ring once more before reaching to pick it up, keeping his eyes on John the whole time. "Sherlock Holmes," he answered. Silence filled the air as Sherlock listened.

"Yes I have." John was staring at Sherlock expectantly, mild irritation visible across his brow line.

"Right now," Sherlock said, and then promptly hung up.

All at once Sherlock sprung up from his chair, pocketed his phone, and clapped his hands together. "That was Lestrade, asking if I'd looked over the case about the four murdered blonde girls. I told him I was on my way right now. Better get a move on if we want to make it before night fall." And then he was off, shooting across the flat to round up the things he needed.

John stood from his chair. "Wait, hang on, Sherlock. We're not done talking here." He was definitely irritated now.

"Weren't you just saying I needed to take a case, John?" Sherlock smiled as he headed for his room.

He stopped in his tracks when John appeared in his bedroom, blocking his entrance. "There are a few perks of being a spirit, you know," John said, cocking his head. Ever since John had come back, he'd removed the lines of salt at every entrance. It wasn't exactly a safe thing to do, but he wanted John to be able to move around the flat without any trouble.

Sherlock blinked slowly, trying to think of what to say that would satisfy John and yet let him avoid this conversation. "We'll talk about it later," he said, and walked around John. He didn't get five steps before John appeared in front of him again.

Sherlock scowled outwardly. This disappearing/reappearing act was going to get old fast. Before, Sherlock's longer legs always guaranteed he could at least out walk John if he had no other way of avoiding him, should the need arise.

There was a crease in John's brow and his mouth was set. "I know you, Sherlock. If I leave this, you'll just come up with something the next time to get out of it again."

Sherlock's mind was already racing, flicking through his next set of responses. He knew he needed to choose something that would play on John's conscience. "Look, I promise, we will. But right now there are four girls dead in Wisconsin and if we don't hurry up there's going to be another one." Admittedly, Sherlock didn't care so much about that. In fact, he was hoping for another murder. It would help him identify a pattern, and help him find out the creature responsible.

He could see the realization dawn in John's eyes, and he knew he had him. It took some effort not to visibly smirk. John sighed and rubbed his hand over his eyes. "You're right. We need to go. But I will hold you to it, Sherlock. We will talk about this."

"Of course." Sherlock nodded cooperatively. He gave John a quick smile, and then proceeded to get to the rest of his equipment. He tied his scarf around his neck and then they were out the door.

Sherlock had a car. Most people didn't think he drove, but he did. He had to. He had all sorts of weapons hidden under a false-bottom in his trunk. Plus, he had to drive to other states, it wasn't practical to hire a driver. However, for some reason, when John began hunting with him, he took over the driving. It was sort of an unspoken thing. Sherlock found it very helpful, actually. It gave him that small percent of his brain back that was concentrating on the road, so he could then concentrate more fully on the case. They'd taken turns, of course, if it was a long drive, but John usually took the brunt of it.

Now, however, Sherlock wasn't sure what to do. He knew that John technically could drive. Hell, he could literally go inside the car, become it, and make it run. They'd had a case like that before. The spirit of a little girl haunting a family had gone into the mother's car when Sherlock and John arrived, and nearly ran them over. They'd only been in the driveway of the house the girl was haunting though. This was different. They'd be taking a three hour drive across state lines. An ordinary spirit wouldn't be able to do that. But he'd already learned that John wasn't your average ghost. It seemed he could travel wherever he liked.

'_How is it that things turned out this way?_

_What you hold most dear has come and gone_

_Since the time that everything was right_

_And now it just feels wrong, oh so wrong'_

John made the decision for him. John took the keys from Sherlock's reluctant fingers and climbed into the driver's seat. Sherlock got in on the passenger's side, flicking his eyes to John. John turned the key in the ignition. "This is better now anyway, isn't it? Now I can do all the driving. I don't have to sleep, after all."

Sherlock nodded slowly, and buckled his seatbelt. He'd been in the supernatural business for many years, and it took a lot for him to consider something 'strange', but having his best friend come back from the dead and start helping him solve crimes again? Yeah, that was strange. But still, he couldn't deny the shot of pleasure that coursed through him and pooled in the center of his chest. He'd missed this the most. The long car rides. Having someone he actually liked, to bounce ideas off of. Someone there by his side, someone having his back. Being a hunter almost always guaranteed you a lonely life. Sherlock had been lucky to find John. And as much as he thought things would go back to the way they'd been before he'd even met John, he couldn't have been more wrong.

He looked over at John again, considering telling him this. They had a three hour car ride, after all. He opened him mouth, but the words got caught in his throat on their way out. He closed his mouth again. It was fine. John knew Sherlock was glad to have him back. He had to. It was obvious, right? With that thought, Sherlock settled back into his seat and opened up the case file Lestrade had provided him with, and dove into it.

The ride was spent mostly in silence. John had always let Sherlock think without interruption. But now and then Sherlock would take a break and he'd let John turn on the radio. Sherlock thought he had awful taste in music, but it was amusing to watch John sing along to the songs, even if he was consistently out of tune. Just like old times.

They reached the town of Hillsboro around midday, their first stop being the house of the first victim. She was seventeen-years-old, a high school student who had a part-time job at the local grocery store. She'd been killed two weeks ago.

The house was in quaint a suburban neighborhood. Sherlock's eyes darted around as they waited for someone to answer the door. After a few seconds, a man with graying hair, though obviously in his late thirties, answered the door.

"Can I help you?" He looked at them suspiciously but not unkindly.

Sherlock held up his badge. "FBI, we're here to investigate the murder of your daughter, Shannon Woods."

The man looked back and forth between them. "We've already spoken to the police. We don't know anything else. We were hoping someone could tell us something."

"We're not the police," Sherlock replied simply, his tone unmoved.

John flicked his eyes to Sherlock and then to the man. "What my partner means is that we'd appreciate it if you could go over what happened once more with us. We know this must be a hard time for you, but having all the facts will help us to prevent this from happening to someone else's loved one."

The man's face morphed, losing the suspicion and becoming sadder, older. He nodded, and the corner of his lip pulled up in a sad, almost apologetic, smile. "Yes, of course, come in."

Sherlock waited as John walked through first, smiling to himself. John had always been better at handling people. People just instantly liked him for some reason and felt comfortable around him. Sherlock always said the wrong thing, was always too unsympathetic, 'tactless' he'd been called many times. Yes, it was very nice having John back with him.

"Actually, I'll have a look outside," Sherlock called after the pair. "Meet me outside when you're finished, Agent," he said to John. He shut the door on a surprised John, and went to examine the yard. He'd worked with John long enough to know that John was capable of asking the right questions while still being tactful and not wasting too much time. It hadn't always been that way, John used to spend too much time trying to comfort the family, and asking all the wrong questions. But just because John had been gone for two years didn't mean he'd forgotten what to do. Sherlock trusted him.

He checked underneath the windowsills, checked the ground for footprints, looked at the plants for any signs of disturbance, ect. There was nothing. The yard was filled with stupid lawn ornaments, a security system sign, and ostentatious flowers. Sherlock was scowling by the time John met up with him outside.

"What did the parents say?" Sherlock asked when they were back in the car. He had his elbow resting on the window and was looking out of it, chewing on his fingernail, his mind racing, but part of his brain was still listening to John.

"Nothing that we didn't already know from the police report. They'd gone out for the weekend to their cabin along the lake in Michigan. They came home and found their daughter dead in her bedroom, lying on her bed in a pool of blood, her throat cut with multiple stab wounds to the stomach."

Sherlock said nothing, the seed of irritation growing inside of him. Honestly, he hadn't expected to find much from the first victim's house. It'd been two weeks since she'd been murdered. But still, he expected to pick up on _something_ the police had missed.

"Tell me about her," Sherlock said.

"She was out-going, floated around groups of friends, getting along with everyone. While she wasn't a cheerleader, she still fit in with the 'popular' group of kids, still being able to get away with hanging out with the 'nerds' without getting criticized. Did her school work, got good grades, got along with her parents for the most part. Basically the perfect child."

Sherlock's knee bounced unconsciously, and he was itching for a cigarette. He had picked the habit back up after John had died. All of his old dealers had refused to sell to him after he'd paid them off the last time. He'd promised them even more money this time around, but apparently Mycroft had paid them a visit as well, not only paying them double what Sherlock had, but threatening them with jail time if they ever sold to Sherlock again. And they knew Mycroft had the power to do that. So, cigarettes had been his only option.

However he didn't want John to know he'd started again. He knew John would be disappointed. Sherlock scowled internally. Since when did he live by what did or didn't make John disappointed? That settled it, he would stop at the nearest gas station later and buy a pack, John be damned. Sherlock gritted his teeth, fighting the voice in his head that said _'no you won't'_.

'_Please stop this pain_

_Hurt for so long_

_Pain, hurt for so long_

_I've felt this way for so long'_

John parked outside of the second victim's house. Sherlock didn't move, caught up in his internal battle, his mind completely absorbed for once. It happened so rarely, and whenever it did, not even a full-blown hurricane could break his concentration. However, the heat of John's stare could. Sherlock broke out of his thoughts and turned to John. John was smiling.

"What?" Sherlock asked, his tone defensive, momentarily worried that John had someone garnered the ability to read minds.

"Just thought you might like to see this?" John reached into his jacket and pulled out a small, purple, hard-covered book.

Sherlock grabbed it, turning it over in his hands. There was no title. He flipped the first page open. All it had on it was the girls name. "What is this?" he asked.

John rolled his eyes. "It's the girl's diary, Sherlock. I nicked it from her room when her parents weren't looking."

A smirk spread across Sherlock's face. "Stealing dead girls' diaries, John? How very unsympathetic of you," he teased.

"Yes, well, she's dead, isn't she?" John quipped back, smiling lightly. However, something about his statement put Sherlock off. John sounded as if he was joking, but still, it wasn't something he would normally say. Sherlock shook it off. John was just bantering with him.

They got out of the car after that. Once again Sherlock left John to handle the information gathering while he searched outside of the house. He knew that he wouldn't get much information from the first two families, seeing as the murders had occurred too long ago for them to get much, so he let John handle them. He would take part in questioning the next two families. They would be much more helpful.

Unfortunately, the house was exactly like the last one they'd visited. Minus a lawn ornament or two. The family also had no new information, and John wasn't able to snag a diary this time.

They called it a day after that. They'd visit the next two families tomorrow as well as taking a trip to the morgue to examine the bodies.

They found the nearest motel and went up to the front desk to check in. A kid was standing at the desk, around the age of thirteen or so. Sherlock eyed him. He was an older brother to a second son of a single mother. Played videogames often, ate mostly junk food or microwave meals, and had been sneaking playboy magazines into his room recently. He had the look on his face Sherlock had seen many times on teen boys' faces. They thought they were tough and witty, like a small dog that didn't realize its size.

"Two queens or a king?" the kid asked, looking between Sherlock and John.

"Two queens," Sherlock replied laconically.

"Yeah, I'll bet," the kid raised his eyebrows, smirking, and went to grab a key.

Sherlock bit back a retort as he heard John choke on air next to him. He looked over at him. "Kids these day, eh? They never change." John quirked an eyebrow, smiling. Sherlock said nothing, not sure how to feel about John's response to the kid's suggestion that they were sleeping together.

The room was just as luxurious as they always were. Two beds that were hard to sleep on and a TV that came with six channels. At least there were never any roaches in their shower…yet.

The rest of the evening was spent quietly. Sherlock did some research online while John went through the girl's diary. Sherlock couldn't help but look over at John more often than he would like to. Two years ago John would have been eating dinner right now. Dinner always consisted of food from some fast food restaurant or something from the local gas station. He'd always bring something back for Sherlock, although Sherlock almost never ate. Now neither of them were eating. And John wouldn't be sleeping either, something Sherlock rarely did during cases. John's quiet snores would play in the background while Sherlock did research, working their way into his subconscious and occasionally lulling him into sleep. John would find him at the table the next morning, smile, slip out of the room and bring back coffee to wake him up.

'_And when you think back on those times_

_It seems so close, just beyond your reach_

_But the past vanishes like smoke from a cigarette in the night breeze'_

That would never happen now, and Sherlock wasn't quite sure what to think about it. He supposed it was a minute detail, something that shouldn't even register with him, but somehow it did. But in the grand scheme of things, it didn't matter. What mattered was that John was back. He should be making the most of it, telling John how he was feeling. Telling him that he loved him.

Sherlock pushed away from the table and went to his bag to gather some clothing to take a shower. Before he walked into the bathroom, he stopped, gripping the side of the door tightly as a war raged inside of him. He swallowed the lump in his throat, and turned around. John was sitting on his bed, wearing a pair of pajama bottoms and a plain black t-shirt that clung tight enough to show off the hard planes of his torso. He was concentrating hard on the diary, so much so that the tip of his tongue was peeking out of the corner of his mouth and he didn't seem to notice.

"John?"

"Hmm?" John hummed, not looking up from the diary.

Sherlock closed his eyes, holding the image in his mind, embracing the quiet, knowing that this could be the last moment of peace between them, the last moment of friendship, if John didn't accept Sherlock's feelings, if he didn't reciprocate them. He let out a slow breath.

Sherlock clasped his hands together to keep from wringing them. "I promised you we would talk about my…feelings on your death."

John's eyes flicked up, surprise evident in them. He blinked, not saying anything, and then realization set in. "Oh! You want to talk about them now?" he sounded pleased.

Sherlock fought the urge to roll his eyes and snap, _"Yes, now, why else would I be bringing it up?" _He successfully refrained, and instead nodded simply.

John smiled and set the diary down. "Good. Great." He looked unsure for a moment, seeming to not know what to say now that Sherlock had actually agreed to talk about his feelings. It wasn't something that Sherlock usually did. And by usually, he meant never. And John really was no therapist.

He licked his lips, and then seemed to regain his composure. "So," John began, "did you go straight back to work after I died?"

The question might seem absurd to ask someone. Why would someone go straight back to work when their best friend just died? But Sherlock wasn't just anyone, and by John bringing up Sherlock's work, it gave Sherlock something to relate to, made it easier for him to talk about his feelings, or so John thought.

But Sherlock didn't care about all of that. If he allowed himself to really delve into the whole story, he would lose what little will he was holding onto right now. So he jumped right in.

"I love you," Sherlock blurted out. "I have for a long time now, but I didn't realize it until after you died. I didn't think it was possible for me to feel that way about anyone, but I do. I tried to deny it, but your death made that impossible. I know it's just a chemical reaction in the brain, but if that's true, why do I feel it in my heart? Why did it feel as if a black hole had sprung forth in the center of my chest when you died? It isn't logical, but still, it is fact. How can that be?" His chest was heaving as he stared at John. He felt as if he could faint right here. His mind whirled but no thoughts were being processed, all that filled his body was emotion. Pure, raw, emotion.

John's jaw had dropped and he was staring at Sherlock, wide-eyed. He said nothing. Panic coursed through Sherlock, but most of all he felt regret. He knew he'd ruined everything. John would leave now. He could disappear on the spot and never return. He was a spirit after all, and even being as good a detective as he was, Sherlock would never be able to find him. Something pricked at the back of his eyes, and he felt a wet sensation sliding down his face.

And just as soon as it had come on, Sherlock took all of the emotions and shoved them away, tearing at them violently. His back straightened, and his hopeful look turned to a venomous glare. "Don't pity me," he spat. "I can see the feelings are not reciprocated. Leave. I will not stand here and be mocked."

John still didn't move. His resolved wavered for a moment. Why didn't John just leave? Scowling, he turned away quickly, knowing that the wall he'd thrown up was feeble, and one more second of looking at John would cause it to come crashing down around him.

"Sherlock!" John called out, and suddenly there was a hand on his arm. Sherlock turned back around. Ocean blue eyes stared up at him. Sherlock gazed into them warily, waiting for the blow that would shatter him completely.

But then John was smiling. It was a brilliant and blinding smile, bigger and happier than Sherlock could ever remember seeing on his face. "You know, for someone who claims to be the world's best detective, you sure are oblivious to what's right in front of you."

And then John was kissing him, gripping the back of his neck and pulling him down. Sherlock's eyes remained open in shock. He'd never been kissed in his life. Not really, at least not by someone he actually cared about.

His feelings overwhelmed him, and Sherlock's eyes fluttered shut. He gripped John back, pulling him to his body as close as possible. Their lips moved together, hungry, needy. This had been building up for a long time now.

They pulled away for a moment to catch their breath. "I love you, too, Sherlock," John breathed out. Sherlock smiled so widely that it hurt. His laugh came from the very center of his soul, and he pressed his lips to John's once more.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, are you all right?"

Sherlock's eyes flew open. John was sitting on the bed, diary in hand. The fantasy that'd played out in his head disappeared, retreating back into the recesses of his mind. Sherlock blinked.

John was looking at him strangely, and slightly worried. Sherlock shook his head, momentarily disoriented. "Yes, yes, I'm fine." He tried to swallow; his throat felt bone dry. "I, uh, I just…" He ran his hand over his mouth. "I just wanted to say that…that it's good that you're back."

Sherlock internally winced. He couldn't even say that he missed John. He couldn't even properly express how much he was glad to have John back. How was he ever going to tell John that he loved him?

A smile spread across John's face, with mild surprise at Sherlock's confession. It wasn't exactly how most people liked to be told that they were missed, but John knew this was the best Sherlock could do. "Thanks. It's good to be back."

Sherlock smiled weakly and went into the bathroom. As the water rained down, Sherlock leaned against the shower wall and held out his hand. Water pooled in his palm and he watched as it brimmed over, dripping from his fingertips. And for just a few more minutes, he let the fantasy play out in his head again, wondering if one day it would become reality.

'_And you're still dreaming of a time_

_When the day will come that was meant to be_

_And you're still dreaming of a way_

_To reach the place that you've never been'_

* * *

><p><strong>A giant kudo cookie for anyone who spotted the line I used from an episode of Supernatural. And yes, I know I'm wicked for playing that little trick on you guys. Did I get you guys though? I had you, didn't I? haha. Thanks for reading! Don't forget to check out the song! <strong>

**Also, what'd you think of the lyrics being woven in? Yay or nay?**

**Anyway, Reviews are loved and appreciated!**


End file.
